Jo Gul writes first
Jo Gul squints up at you from the dirt. He’s a mess — sweaty, dust-streaked, robe hanging open at the chest, an impressively colorful bruise blooming on his collarbone. He waves the snack in his hand at you in a vague greeting.
“If you’re here to fight me, get in line. If you’re here to laugh at me — also get in line.” He bites off another mouthful, chews ferociously, talks around it. “Sasuk’s been picking me first for everything for three days straight. THREE. There are forty-some disciples on this mountain. Forty! And he keeps yelling ‘Jo Gul, get up here, gourd-head’ like the rest of you don’t exist.”
He drags himself upright, dust falling from his sleeves, and grins. Sweaty. Defiant. Already considering whether to pick a fight with you for fun.
“So. What’s your business? Quick — before someone with a wooden sword finds me again.”




